essay: #062: Romance Strangely

c.victorynewsmagazine

I think of...
Intravenous drips, hanging from trees.
Indonesia, 2006, post 6.3 quake.
Mount Merapi, meanwhile.
Rumbles discontentedly.
In the distance.

I think of...
US-hurricane season's about to begin.
Predictions grim, sorry to say.
Drills, for all kinds of eventuality.

I think of...
A suicide vest.
Constructed, for maximum fatality.
Impact, of the worst kind.

I think of...
Being the accidental tourist.
Romance strangely, with a point in time.

And then, as always.
I think of...
Tenderness, of a fleeting second.
Fabulous, to the last...

# transmission ends #

essay:#061: Tatooine Tomorrow

Saw a biblical spectacle, recently.
Beautiful and breathtaking.
Nature, at her most sublime.
Sandstorm, on the verge of Sudan.
Rise up, red and grainy.
Swallowing city, whole.

Meanwhile.
In a galaxy.
Not, far, far away...

ASSOCIATED PRESS REPORT

Chinese weather specialists used chemicals to engineer Beijing's heaviest rainfall of the year. Technicians fired seven rocket shells containing 163-cigarette-size sticks of silver iodide into city skies. China has been tinkering with artificial rainmaking for decades, using it frequently in the drought-plagued North. Last month, another artificial rainfall was generated to clear Beijing after city suffered some of the fiercest dust storms this decade. Whether cloud seedling actually works is subject of debate...

# transmission ends #

essay: #060: eat me

Found a book, of erotica.
In Young, Adult Fiction, today.
Thought about, all the sorts of people.
It takes, to make this world, go round.

From the boy, in the window.
Who lives, opposite me.
Front lit, by the naked glow, of a computer screen.
Framed in such, a beautiful way.

Alone.
And Not.
As we all, are.
In the end.

To a 7-year-old-child.
Who makes his momma, proud..
What you should know about me...
The question, on his textbook page.
I’m a nice kid…
He writes.
And, he is.

Eat Me.
Yes.
That, was the name of the book.
Connotations, aplenty.
Secrets, within secrets.
Magnitudes, of light.
In these here, febrile times...

# transmission ends #

essay: #059: Incendiary

Incendiary.
A word, befitting, our times.
Aflame.
Combustible.
Within, a split second, of itself.

Chris Cleave, author.
Incendiary: A Novel of Unbearable Devastation And Unbounded Love.
A mood, I slip into.
Like a pre-9/11, cocktail.
That's no longer, on the menu.

Yes.
Freak tornado, sandstorm and 9ft-waves, occur in Israel.
Apocalypse, notwithstanding.
And a literary plea, to Osama.
Punctures holes, in my world.
Honest.
Breaks my heart.
And says, so much.
About the here.
About, the now.

# #

My man says:
Power to the people…
When, what he really means, is:
How can one person, make a difference?

# #

Cleve says:
The last thing I wrote was N/A on an income support form that wanted NAME OF SPOUSE OR PARTNER. So you see I'll do my best but you'll have to bear with me beause I'm not a big writer. I'm going to write to you about the emptiness that was left when you took my boy away. I'm going to write so you can look into my empty life and see what a human boy really is from the shape of the hole he leaves behind.

I say:
I rest my case...

# transmission ends #

essay: #058: Suspended Animation

Cyclone season, commences.
Second, in two weeks.
Global warming is reversible.
Says, an optimist, of sorts.
Meteorologists, say nay.
More, on the way....

Gods, be angry.
Whichever way, you look at it.
Total eclipses, blackout our sun.
While mutiny erupts, down below.

Violently happy.
Small cog, in big wheel.
An editor says:
Your work is original fiction…
I say: Honey, snap out of it...
Into it.

New era, demands the bloodshed.
Of words, previously unspoken.
I am a tree, that grows color.
Says the lyrics.

Suspended animation.
A state of beauty, and grace.
The drowned World.
A book, close to my heart.
A reunion, with nostalgia.
To future cities.
Buried deep beneath.
Triassic tomorrows.

# transmission ends #

essay: #057: Russian Roulette

Pretty nasty.
This TGN1412, business.
Hey, Mr Pharmaceutical.
Run, come, inject me.
Inflate my head.
To three times, its normal size.
Intensive Care sabbatical.
Courtesy, of The Corporation.
For the little lab rats, in Cubicle #9.


c. cbs news

Trying to save a population.
That sometimes, resists.
Cyclones roar across eastern shores.
Dead dictators are laid out.
Like slabs of meat.
And six men float, critically.
Through TeGenero stasis.

Experiment on primal cousins.
Experiment on the highly-evolved.
What’s the difference?
Sacrifice the few.
For the masses.
Isn’t that, the way it goes?

For the sake of science.
And, the human race.
Foolish people commit unfathomable acts.
Whores, on both sides.

Human life.
All, too cheap.
"I feel bad, I had the placebo," sniffed one survivor.
It was like Russian Roulette.
I was doing it, for the money.
But 2000 pounds, is not worth your life.”

Enough said...

# transmission ends #

essay: #056: Transatlanticism

c. William S. Turchyn II


Fragile eco-system, this world.
All pulp fiction.
Plasmadelic, wide-screen porn.
Space tourism could soon be affordable.
Say the experts.
Not a second, too soon.
Comes, my reply.

I dream of Skyscraper Escape Pods.
For the hi-rise, in distress.
Israeli invention.
$1-million-prototype.
Lifeboat, for the inevitable.
Lest we forget.
Though, we never shall.

I dream of humanity.
Carved into a cliff face.
And of Philippine landslides, that bury people whole.
But mostly, I see a man.
With a catatonic stare.
A stranger, with nowhere to go.

Lo-fi.
Like someone's turned down the volume.
Swimming through fog.
Amnesia, of tomorrow.

And the lifeboats?
Well.
No, not interested.
Said the City of New York.
When offered a test drive.

Peace of mind, in an expandable cabin.
Or simply, just a Sign O’The Times?
Ground Zero for progression.
Vision.

Cushion our world with airbags.
Numb us.
So there’s nothing left to feel, in the end.
Just like the stranger.
The boy, with the sad, sad.
Columbine stare...

# transmission ends #

essay: #055: Mightier than the Sword

Escher's Tower of Babel

The ink, it seems.
Is still mightier, than the sword.
Reaction to satirical depictions.
Of Prophet Muhammad.
Reaches hysterical proportions.

"In Iran, the thirst for revenge has even lead the government-controlled media to announce a gruesome contest to draw the most offensive Holocaust cartoon possible in order to avenge the lampooning of Islam.

"In Gaza, a Muslim cleric has called for the beheading of those European
editors who published the anti-Islamic cartoons, while others are demanding
that the hands of the cartoonists be amputated..."
Cameron Stewart, The Australian Newspaper.

Savage words of indictment.
From the enraged.
And growing, in numbers.

Ideology and fanaticism.
Thirst, that is never quenched.
Drives planes into buildings.
Bombs into backpacks.
Flames to the cloth.

Bloodshed is bloodshed.
Hypocrisy, the same color, in any tongue.
Tower of Babel.
That’s how it looks, right now.
Everyone’s shouting.
But no one’s listening…

# #

essay: #054: Complicit in Fiction

Touched.
By the melancholy beauty, of it all.
Of how the camera lies.
Complicit in the fiction.
Of our own making.

http://www.robertdoisneau.com

Meanwhile.
Ferries sink in sandstorms, in the Red Sea.
1400 people depart.
Only 324 return...

# #

Thinking about.
A body of ocean.
8,000 miles wide.
About, what separates.
And what unites us.

Thinking of United Colors.
Of this Benetton world.
Of Syrians, torching embassies.
Over caricatures, of the Prophet Muhammad.

Of dialogue, burning with hatred.
Across continents.
And throughout history.
Broadcasting, via the newswire.
And beyond.

# transmission ends #

essay: #053: Breakfast on Pluto

 
 
Breakfast on Pluto.
Nirvana of solitude.
Space station.
Somewhere, stateline California.

Skimming the rim.
Of desert.
Of time.
Of space.
Of changing worlds.

"Your words are disjointed, sometimes."
My baby says.
Yes.
Flitting here and there.
Strokes of softness.
Between the harsh.

Diving between the headlines.
Lost in the landslides.
And H5N1 computer-simulations of pandemic.
Only ever, a plane ride away.

Lost, in tasting love.
Intimate and not.
Sharing it all.
With this.
Letter to a future.
Already here.

# transmission ends #

essay: #052 Possibility of an Island

We build our monuments tall.
All masculine.
All erect.
Up, out of the ground.
To the heavens above.
Stairways to a better place.
Some believe.

Love.
Despise.
The arrogance of it all.

#

My baby holds the ashes of a dear friend, in his hands.
"It has bone in it ,,," he says.
I want to hold him close.
So I do.

#

How long does it take a body to burn?
Disintegrate into ashes.
To be scattered on the four winds.
Back from where it came.

Will it seem fleeting, in the end?
Life presented as a car-crash of memory.
Of images.
Of body.
Of words.

Possibility of an Island.
Within each and every one of us.
Potential, to leave our mark.
Potential to check-out, way before our time.
Potential to color all that we touch.
Always.

# transmission ends #

essay: #051: Postscript, 2005.

Sighs and whispers.
Words between pictures.
Tsunami and hurricane.
Bodybags litter our terrain.

Everything's illuminated.
Optimism, amid the turmoil.
Awareness, of a different kind.

Tasted culture, this year.
Traveled many miles.
Across sky.
Across ocean.
To lands, far, far away.

Through forests of wind turbines.
And the click of a million Vegas chips.
Venice Beach, where the palm trees sway.
To the digital fingerprinting.
And biometric eye scans.
Of tomorrow.
Of me.
On file.
Download.
Into Planet Surveillance mainframe.

Felt the heartbeat of my baby.
Curled in tight.
On an endless, Californian night.

Carpe diem!
Live.
Learn.
That's what we're supposed to do.

Sweet and divine.
Every last moment.
Put it into perspective?

2005.
Greatest Story Ever Told.

essay: #050: Kung Fu Hustle

Just in from Sin City.
Satellite outpost.
In the desert sands.

Vegas...
What goes on there, stays there!
Or so I'm told.
Click of a million cameras.
A million chips.
A million paychecks.
A million helicopter blades.
Deep into the sunrise.

Nevada blues never got me.
Windowless alleys where time has no meaning.
To Joshua Trees.
And streets with no name.

Oh so pretty, this City of Angels.
Tagged and sometimes not.
Architectural prism of light.
Canyon oasis.
Statelines and Louisiana diners.
Cheap and nasty.
To fields of wind propellers.
And street parties in Palm Springs.

Losing my heart.
In the excess and golden smiles.
In the knowing.
And the unknowable.

Post 9/11-world.
Retreats into the distance.
For now.
Only this.
Red, White & Blue.
Blood & Beans Tour.

A work in progress....

essay: #049: Sunset Boulevard Tuesday.

Scene One

Clock says: 11.56am.
My body says something different.
From one continent, to the next.
Surfing this international dateline.

Cocktails, pills and Nada Surf ballads.
ipods and eye masks.
Limited alcohol.
And by the way,
"No congregating in groups allowed, folks...."

13 hours later...

Houston lady, seated to my right, new best friend.
Motions to First-Class slumber ahead:
"There's a difference between the have and have-nots in this world, girl..",
God love her.
Keeping me sane, like this.
She, soaking up life in the autumnal fast-lane.
Me, just along for the ride.

* *

Sinking into the fluffy white clouds.
Beneath the wings, now.
Only the sound of the engine.
And a heartbeat.
Gliding through this space, time continuum

* * *

Scene Two:

L.A. Customs.
Border Patrol.
Declarations of Intent.
Not in Kansas anymore, daddy.
Department of Homeland Security Agents.
Some perfunctory, while they digitize your fingerprints.
Others sweet, "Hi, ho...Love the T-shirt, and have a nice day, now..."

Cab drivers happily commentate.
While levitating taxi 3-feet from the ground.
"Sorry for snapping your spine, mam.
But have a great holiday, anyway!"

Love this Freedom.
Love this Liberty.
Love the man who bade me here.
Hiding behind an airport column.
Asleep on his couch...

* * *
Scene Three: Four Days From Now...

I will count.
Eight planes and three helicopters.
As the sun sets over the rooftops.
Here, and in the now.
In this City of Architecture.
And eternal sunshine.
Human and otherwise.

# transmission ends #

essay: #048: Eyes of a Child.

c. AFP.com

There's a quote, that haunts me.
From a time, long before suicide bombers,took over the world.
When we punctured a hole in the sky..
Split the fucking atom and the universe, wide apart.

"I am sure at the end of the world, in the last millisecond of the earth's existence humanity will see what we have just seen..." -
George Kistiakowsky, Head of Implosion Department , Manhattan Project, 1944.

Now, earthquakes, bombs and bitch hurricanes.
Wipe our blood, red meridians clean.
From the bone.
Erasing our footprints from the plasma sands of our own destruction.
Grainy, fleeting, just slips through the tips.

Reading novels, immersing in the surreal.
About suicide bomber cyclists.
About Al-Jazeera, behind the scenes.
Pure & Radiant Hearts, thank you, Lydia!
Heaven in a Chip, barcode for the flesh, for tomorrow.

Godfathers of the A-bomb.
Come see your playground, now.

Too tired to cry, busy watching bodies being excavated.
Again.
From 7.6 magnitude eruptions.
RIP estimated 35,000 dead.
From poverty to the grave, with little in the middle...

Drifting off...
Wondering, can a millisecond truly last a lifetime?

# transmission ends #

essay: #047 Ghost Town

c.AFP/Gett Images

It begins as an ache.
Next, comes the flashback.
Stark and disturbing.
Of the photograph, of the man.
The Corpse.
Jon Doe.
Belongs to no one in particular.
Just floating, really.
Through the toxic aftermath of Ghost Town.
Formerly known as New Orleans.

So sad, these unfolding chapters.
These apocalyptic times.
Brings a lump to my throat.
Makes me raw and fucking sentimental.

Third World poverty reflected in the murky depths.
Of a once hedonistic city.
E-coli bacteria in the water.
And refuse of human remains.
Yesterday vibrant.
Today, a fullstop.

#

People are talking:
"I'm scared right now...What's next?"
"Plague, pestilence and the four goddamn horsemen..."
I offer with a wry grin.

#

I wonder about that man.
And how he ended up as floatsam in the food chain.
Deserted, in his hour of need.
I want to forget I ever made his acquaintance.
Sobering and heartbreaking as it was.
Poor soul.
Decomposing before our very eyes.
Our scrutiny and curiosity ever so human.

RIP

essay: #046 Gliding down Canal Street

I used to dream.
Of bodies.
Floating.
Now.
I only have to open my eyes...


c. cnn.com

Corpses litter.
The streets of New Orleans.
Silent.
Bloated.
Accusatory.

Third world.
In the heart of 'God's country...'
Surely you jest.

Sometimes.
Life.
Trickles.
Like water.
Through fingers.

People howling with despair.
On their knees.
"Life goes on."
Says one banner.

Canoes glide down Canal Street.
While troops.
Prepare to harvest the dead.

Such tragedy.
Death of so many souls.
Population: 485,000.
Not anymore.
67 percent.
African-American.

RIP

essay: #045 Amnesiac Souls

c. usnews.com

A woman says:
"We'll all be underwater in 100 years..."
Her eyes drinking in.
The watery devastation.
Of a New Orleans grave.

Misplaced.
Displaced.
Amnesiac souls.
Us.
Humans.

Asahi and Ok Computer.
Keep me company.
Soothe my mind.
As the hurricane subsides.

# #

My baby says:
"Love is... Travelling...8,000 miles..."
I say:
"Give me the gold, from your smile..."

# #

Damn.
Descending again.
Drifting.
In.
Out.

Just fading, really.
Right now.
Into the devastation.
The river of tears.
The hum of a looters heartbeat.
And those sweet.
But reassuring sounds of.
Icebergs melting...

# transmission ends #

essay : #044 On The Wings of ipods

c.William S.Turchyn II

Breathtaking.
This!

Hovering above
The fringes.
Of a city.
In recovery.

So quiet.
So peaceful.
For now...

* *

They shot.
Hunter's ashes.
Deep.
Into.
The.
Great Beyond.
Stylish fucker.
That he was.

Pulverized.
They say.
Into fine particles.
Shot from a cannon.
A Generation of Swine.
Just ejaculated.
All over the
Goddamn place.

* *

Seems sometimes.
Like we forget.
How to breathe.
Yes.
A World That Forgot How To Breathe.
I like that.
dammit.

* *

My baby says:
"I want you to write
Until your fingers bleed..."
I say:
"Too busy.
Observing humanity, honey..."

Falling in love.
With a sepia autumn.
Don't want to.
Keep filling in.
The blanks.
Joining the dots...

Just want to.
Climb onto.
The Wings of ipods.
And
Dream.
Of
A
Place.
Far.
Far.
Away...

# transmission ends #

essay: #043 Rings Of Steel

"Just like the image of the Luton four, like the frozen frame of Mohamed Atta, one of the 9/11 hijackers, as he strolls through the airport, we are confronted by the impossibility of divining evil intent. There is nothing in the face, the manner, the situation. All are blandly normal.

"The cameras, like our own eyes, may glimpse the moment, but they cannot read the already calculating mind. That's left for us to read from the image after the fact, then ponder at our leisure."- Jonathan Green, The Age Newspaper.

Yes.
Unfathomable.
Tragically.
Fucking.
So.

Uncertain words.
For uncertain times.
Dense.
With polarity.
Resonant.
With what we understand.
What we don't.

Other's actions.
Cracked up.
Fucked up.
But always
Illuminating to the core.

Gridlock.
Bombs exploding everywhere.
Brits show stoicism.
Through shell shock.

"I saw the wire and it hit me: he's a suicide bomber." - Commuter, Shepherds Bush, London.

2.5 million surveillance cameras
Mounted within four outposts.
Of London's
Rings of Steel.
Sweet jesus.
Qur'an's riding the subway.
Evangelicism.
On the spines.
Of bomb-rigged-prophets.

People are stunned.
But not.
Overly surprised.

**

Police.
Meanwhile.
Shoot a man to death
In front of commuters.

Blair apologizes.
After the fact.
Bad luck, buddy.
Wrong place.
Wrong time.

But still.
I dream of.
Asahi for my sweetheart.
Lost.
In London
In Summertime.
Somewhere.

Missing.
And missed.

* *